


My Heart is a Metaphor

by AngryGayFriend



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Boston, M/M, Poetry, idk just lots of slam poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryGayFriend/pseuds/AngryGayFriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has a lot of feelings so Jehan suggests writing poems when he's too drunk to paint them out. Jehan ends up playing match maker because damn his friends need to get their shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart is a Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> this is just me being sappy don't expect anything else. I didn't plan on writing this so totally not beta'd sorry  
> poems:  
> "Stop Signs" by Shane Koyczan  
> "Milos" by Anis Mojgani  
> and "Pansies" by Andrea Gibson

It wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to shrivel like a wilted flower with no water, it was supposed to dry up like chalked bones, it was supposed to die off slowly, but surely for sure. It was so much easier when looking back on the moments of lost love, they were like old, pressed flowers. Not something trying to sprout growth, because Grantaire would have turned his own skull into a garden for those. He knew it wasn't healthy. He knew it hurt so good. He was getting to the point where the ache in his chest was no longer incapacitating but inspiration. And then Jehan fucking Prouvaire happened.

Jehan thought it would be helpful for catharsis--that was what Grantaire got for having a roommate as a poet--and convinced him to start writing in the first place. When Grantaire got too drunk on feelings to even think of picking up a paintbrush, he could sit at his laptop and just wax poetic for hours, or what felt like hours at any rate. He'd never look at them sober. But just putting feelings on the page helped.

And of course, it was Jehan fucking Prouvaire who did, eventually, convince him to look at them.

"I think just writing them doesn't necessarily give you the full emotional processing?" he was making a statement but always phrased it as a question, still timid enough that he didn't want to offend. Jehan was well-aware of how personal poetry could be.

"So because I don't check my drunk Word docs is the reason I’m still hung up on him?" He asks as he slurps the foam from his pumpkin spice latte.

"Of course not," Jehan sighed, then looked out the window with an amused glint in his eyes, "I just think it might be worth trying out."

Grantaire huffs a sigh, puts the compostable coffee cup down and cracks his PC open. (He's not so much of a hipster that he'd have a Mac, come on now.) He scrolls through files and folders till he clicks on a few. "Happy now?" he frowns over the top of the screen, its white light reflected in his reading glasses.

Jehan just smiles, "Lovely, my dear."

Grantaire can't help but smile, eyes going back to scrolling the text.

It's not bad. Okay, it's not sober so it's got a shitton of typos and it's not in nearest ballpark of "grammatically correct" but really, it's not bad. After a few more minutes of companionable silence, Jehan leans over,

"Can I see? I won't comment if you don't want to, or if you dont' want to show me, that's completely fine. I'm just curious since drunkTaire always hides it if I even walk behind you when you're typing."

He's clearly excited, half-bent over the table with a grin on his head and well, it's nothing he hasn't seen before--Jehan tends to function as a living vault of emotions, ready for a good rant--so he relents.

"Sorry if you can't read it, I'm not exactly the most spelling-conscious," He shrugs as he turns the laptop around.

Jehan waves his comment off and starts scrolling as Grantaire uncomfortably watches his reactions.

First he seems very intent and pensive. Then a small smile breaks out. Then a larger one, and he's snapping along, eyebrows knitted together as he whines the words, "Grantaire this is so good. It's giving me a lot of feelings, I just can't." There are a few agreeable "Mmm" and "Oh yes" and "Ahhh yes" along with snaps as he scrolls more to the end of the document.

Grantaire just offers him a sheepish smile when he looks up,

"Please read this at the open mic tonight."

He blinks, "Whoa wait. You said you just wanted me to share, nothing about speaking it actually. Um, I'm not sure about that one."

Jehan nods, "No of course. Really, you don't have to share at all if you don't want to. I just, again, catharsis and all and wow, this poem is actually good. Like really good. Like you're really good when you're drunk, half my poems aren't even this good."

Grantaire rolls his eyes as he takes the laptop back, "Somehow I doubt that. Besides, I have a dinner meeting with my adviser, so I can't go into to Central tonight."

Jehan nods again, "Totally, I understand. Just know that since you didn't give me a real no, I'll be bothering you about this next week," he says with a cheeky smile.

Grantaire nods absently, "Good luck with that," as he turns his attention back to his readings.

\--

Jehan was not kidding. Jehan does not fuck around when it comes to poetry open mics, he hits up all of them. No, really. Lizard Lounge, Cantab, Emerson, Harvard, Berklee, and the occassional Simmons. Jehan Prouvaire got no fucks to give, an open mic is an open mic, and he might not have new shit for each of them, but he will gladly listen to everyone else's. So he reminds Grantaire every chance that one of the many poetry open mics and/or slams going down that evening, and Grantaire always just waves him off. Either the poem's not edited, he's got shit to paint, or he's got booze to drink. There's always something.

Until about 4 weeks later, Jehan really fucking insists.

"So Harvard's got an open mic tonight," he mentions typing away on his laptop for a Literature class.

Grantaire just kind of grunts in response from his place on the floor, working through his science requirement problem set that is slowly killing him.

"So we should go. And you should bring your poem," he stops typing.

Grantaire glances up, pencil in his mouth and reading glasses on again, "Uh. P-set. Not happening."

"You've still got two days on that though."

"Yeah, and you know I suck at science so it takes me like all three days."

Jehan huffs, sets the laptop aside and stands, "It's worth it though."

Grantiare just raises his eyebrow and Jehan continues, "Seriously. You've been cooped up painting for this whole week and now you're cooped up doing a problem set, I am mandating as your roommate that you go to this with me."

Grantaire takes the pencil from his mouth, taps it in consideration on his cheek, "Pay for the T ride and cover charge, and I'll go."

Jehan frowns a bit, but nods, "If it'll get you out of the room, then it's worth it."

So they bundle up that February evening, and take the long ride in to Cambridge.

\--

It's not that Grantaire hated Harvard, but he liked BU better for specific reasons: the largest reason being the lack of pretentious closed off space in the middle of a city. Sure, BU is spread out like the guy you don't want to sit next to on a plane ride, but Harvard seems to own literally everything the light touches in Harvard Square, and Grantaire's got some issues with that he's not sure how to articulate. It's an odd, hive mind that he finds himself hating when he's drunk enough. Oh and Enjolras goes there. So there's that shit show of emotions too. But he knows Enjolras doesn't frequent the artsy scenes, so he's anxious but not going to say anything about it. His leg still jitters the entire T ride.

He files in to the warm study space turned stage with the rest of the line, his fingers somehow finding Jehan's in a futile cling for support. They pass the sign up list when they pay the cover charge, and Jehan puts both their names down before they find seats, taking the comfier armchairs in the back. It's a nice space, but obviously this was not its intended purpose. He's been to open mics before, so he's not surprised that everyone seems to oddly know each other because the Boston poetry scene is not nearly as big as it wishes it was, but this is the first time he feels significantly an outlier. He squeezes Jehan's hand again.

Oh and of course there's no booze. The universe just likes shitting on him, after all.

So he idles his time fumbling with his poem until finally, the emcee a funny black girl who's laid back and witty and frees up some of the butterflies in Grantaire's stomach. The first poet is likewise laidback and does something funny that helps his face loosen up. It's helping. This isn't so scary. He can do this.

There are sad poems too, intense poems with trigger warnings, and ones that just hit too damn close to home. He grabs Jehan's hand during those ones, and a few tears might slip, but it's a good kind of crying. He makes himself sit through those and before he knows it his name is being called. He feels dizzy all of a sudden, but he gives Jehan's hand one more tight squeeze before getting up to the mic, clutching the printer paper tight in his hands.

He clears his throat, "Hey um, I'm Grantaire--well I guess you already know that um--and, this is new shit? Is that you call it?" Everyone starts snapping and yelling and he takes another deep breath to steady himself in the moment before he opens his mouth and jumps into it.

"It’s all stop signs,

It’s all lines that shouldn’t be crossed,

It’s all interpretations that have been lost in translation.

Even when the meaning has been embossed in something that redefines stop signs

Something that erases and redraws lines

For all the times curiosity gets the better of us

But until it gets the best we can test the lines,

Until it gets the best it’s all stop signs."

He glances up, so far so good. He takes another breath and his eyes are about to flick back to the page when they lock with a certain Apollo and

and whoa what.

Enjolras is there, standing in the back like he just strolled in and can't find a seat, like he didn't expect to walk in at the exact moment Grantaire happens to be on the mic.

Right, Grantaire is on the mic. The pause has gone on for too long and he wants to just run away and run all the way back to BU, but he's up on the mic so he feels the pressure of the lights and his eyes go back down to the poem. Might as fucking well, he figures.

"And then there’s you.

And I wanna kiss you so bad I’d be willing to

Cut off my own head and just throw it towards your lips

And you’d be well within your rights

To just swat it to the floor

but I’d redefine hardcore

lying there at the tips of your toes

because God knows I’d be trying to figure out

some way to roll towards them.

and maybe that’s crossing the line,

maybe that’s a little creepy.

did I mention that I like you?

And if I knew you better than I do

Then I’d probably know that creepy isn’t the way to go

So how’s this:

I wanna kiss you like a traffic jam,

I wanna move slow,

I wanna stop and go like I know at least I’m moving towards you."

The poem goes on, and he knows he's only supposed to have 3 minutes and this is definitely pushing it, but the audience is excited and snapping along and laughing so they don't kick him off. He makes sure to never fucking make eye contact with Enjolras again during the whole thing.

"I’ve seen sadness drain the spirit out of this history

and if the worst is yet to come,

anyone who took the time to get to know me

knows I don’t run—partly because I’m not athletic

but mostly because that’s life and I’ve met it head on.

I’ve gone the distance more times than

George Lucas has looked at Jar Jar Binks and thought FUCK.

And until I can’t feel I can still fill

My days trying because I’m yours from the bottom to the top

And I’m not just saying I’ll be here for you, I’m saying I’ll never stop."

When he finally hits the end of the poem, he dips his head in a faux bow and makes a B-line off the stage to grab his stuff and just go. Everyone's clapping and yelling and he knows it's bad form but really, he can't face Enjolras after that fucking insane poem. But Jehan grabs his arm and whispers to him to sit, "It's fine. Just stay for my poem, please, and then we can go. It's fine."

Grantaire is going into a cold sweat at this point but he nods, because his higher executive function is kind of shot right now, and sits. Jehan kisses his cheek and stands as his name is called, stops by Enjolras to whisper something Grantaire gratefully can't make out, then goes up to the mic.

Grantaire steals a glance at Enjolras who still looks unmussed and unaffected, eyes on Jehan and the mic now. Grantaire doesn't know if he's to be thankful or mortified.

Jehan smiles, comfortable and in his element, "So this is old shit, but first time being performed so bear with me." As if listening to Jehan Prouvaire poetry was ever just "bearable."

Grantaire's white-knuckle gripping his knees in anxiety, trying to remind himself freaking out right now won't help the fact that he promised to sit through this. It's only three minutes.

Jehan clears his throat then starts in a slow, clear tone,

"Let us take a sack of spray paint and spray paint over the paintings.

Let dance through Paris,

kiss in the shadow of the Louvre,

crawl inside its windows,

scroll manifesto's over its canvas',

write Morse Code on the sculputers,

roll a sleeping bag on the floors to sleep inside of,

tell one another a story by flashlight,

unearth everything from before,

bury each other inside the other,

feed grapes to the ants,

light fireworks in the fists of sleeping kings; kill a monarch.

Break back outside and find a world to do all these same things to;

up and upon against break the bricks, climb over them,

and when the sirens scream,

laugh aloud, hold my hand and run fast."

 

Grantaire's staring wide-eyed, the grip slackening as he relearns how to breathe. The poem's beautiful. It's spiritual yet loving and Grantaire feels so much calmer hearing Prouvaire's soft tones.

"Run through the streets with me with a bunch of bottles,

a bucket of gasoline,

a mouthful of matches,

a pocket full of paintings and fresh faced batch of policemen to chase the fires we are lighting,

laugh on a shoulder of gold."

There is no way this poem is something he just shat out and Grantaire can't help but look at Enjolras' face. He seems likewise unaffected and Grantaire feels singularly self-conscious that he’s the only one who seems to be freaking out over this poem.

"Every tooth that we tear from our jaw to fling at the black gloved riot soldiers as another shadow that we are trying to lose.

Let every giggle be filled with lust; let us laugh this night away and I will fuck you like you were a prayer.

I could save me by having my mouth around you,

and I will hold you afterwards like you were the pulpit and I was the sky,

and this love that danced between that hardness

was a telephone line of holiness that those two things spoke through.

Take me into your heart like I was a saint,

and you were a face of forgiveness blooming in a valley destined to sink further."

He can’t help but cry now. Tonight has been emotionally exhausting and he can only sit and sob as he watches his friend and there is no way Jehan didn't plan this shit, but he can't even worry about that right now, he is just having so many feelings.

"When the hangman of morrow

comes to hang the sun in its daily execution say this with me:

'We are apples, our love is an apple;

I’m unbuttoning my shirt;

painting a circle over my heart,

please, just shoot straight.'"

 

Everyone claps, snaps, stomps, otherwise screamss in delight as Jehan makes his way back to his seat. Grantaire just gapes at him, tearstains down his cheek, "You wrote that poem for me and Enjolras."

Jehan nods, pulling his jacket on and holding his hand out for Grantaire, "Want to head home now?"

Grantaire stares at the hand, then can't help but spare a glance at Enjolras. They make eye contact again, except Enjolras is so much less guarded now, tears in his eyes too but he won't let them fall like Grantaire. Their eye contact is mesmerizing, Enjolras' lips parted like he's about to say something. Instead he turns on his heel and leaves, practically running out the lounge.

Grantaire sighs, then looks back to Jehan, "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good."

\--

Grantaire collapses into a pile of feelings after that. He's just proud of himself he didn't break down crying on the T ride, but yeah he sobs for most of the night. Jehan figured it would happen, but still feels guilty. Into the wee hours, he sits with Grantaire's head in his lap, stroking his stray curls, "I just wanted you two to start talking, I didn't think--" "It's fine," Grantaire croaks out, silent tears now.

"No, I'm so sorry, Grantaire. I just thought if you two could put some feelings on the table, things wouldn't be such a Mexican stand-off."

Grantaire nods vaguely, so exhausted. Just so exhausted. “It’s not like we were exactly working beforehand. This changes things, maybe,” Grantiare shrugs, trying to look on the positive side, though really there’s no guarantee a change in their relationship will end good.

“I think this is the part we either stop being friends or get together, and I feel like,” he breaks down sobbing again, “A-And I don’t want to admit but the latter seems really impossible,” he sobs all hoarse and broken under Jehan’s touch.

Jehan kisses his forehead, “It’s alright, Grantaire. Worrying about it won’t prepare you, it’ll just make you hurt more now.”

Grantaire nods vaguely as he tries to get his tears back under control, eventually just falling asleep with Jehan.

When he checks his phone the next day, there are four texts from Enjolras which he all ignores.

\--

After that first open mic, hell yeah he wants to go again, but he makes sure to avoid Harvard's. Instead they're at the Cantab, Grantaire again clutching Jehan's like a lifeline because fuck the poets have been werqin tonight and if Grantaire wasn't a poor college student, he'd buy everyone a beer. He was silent tears by the second, even let out a sob midway through the fifth and like wow. Poets. Grantaire isn't exactly a pent up fortress of non-emotion like Enjolras; he's cried in the MFA before, staring at huge and tiny paintings alike. He's cried midway through painting a final project. He's not "sensitive" this is just inspiration. Intense feelings are inspiration.

They're coming up to the end of the pleasantly long open mic, and Grantaire is more than buzzed. The room spins a little bit when he stands, and he's used to that enough that he can still get by, but no it's not exactly grounding.

They're far enough in that the emcee who started has switched off with another--they've been at it for a while--and she's keeping the energy up but pauses as she struggles to read the name:

Enjolras.

Grantaire's hand squeezes Jehan's so tight in that moment--he hisses over at him, "Seriously? Did you plan this, Prouvaire?" while the audience cheers up the man.

Jehan smiles at him, "You know I love a good love story. He didn't feel comfortable approaching you, so I reminded him how much you like his public speaking and mentioned how this might be the best way."

"Is he going to do a speech now? Is he seriously?" Grantaire's wide-eyed, somewhere between terrified and hopeful.

Jehan shakes his head, "This is the Boston Poetry Slam, honey, so I gave him a poem because he's a little hopeless at writing his own. I think he's written a speech for after too, but don't tell him I said anythi--"

"Ahem."

His attention snaps back up to the stage, mesmerized by the sight of the blond god under stage lights, and his hair is a golden sea of waves and curls and his eyes look bluer than he's used to.

"Um, this is my first time here,"

and everyone cheers so loudly at that,

"And I'm not great at writing poems so my friend really helped me. But I'm going to try now anyways."

The crowd continues to encourage, snapping and thumping their feet.

He hears Enjolras take a deep breath over the static of the microphone, and then that voice is coming over through the speakers,

"I was holding my heart in the palms of my nervous hand

My heart had 200 broken windows, glass covering the floor

and amazing light in almost every room

 

My heart was beating like a pillow fight.

Feathers were flying everywhere

I couldn’t stop crying for all those birds

I could not stop crying."

Grantaire's sure he's never seen Enjolras cry, but he's pretty sure he's about to.

"Our hearts beat so loud the neighbours think we’re fucking

when I’m just trying to find the nerve to touch your face

You don’t ask God how long this will last

I don’t care about any of the words on the map besides

You are here

 

You are here listening to me tell you I’ve been stung by a bee only twice in my life

Both times I was sung in the mouth

I still carry the stingers under my tongue

So I never forget where honey comes from"

He inhales deeply through his nose, and Enjolras' eyes flick up briefly, making sharp eye contact with Grantaire and he can't tell if he's about to have an anxiety attack or jizz in his pants, but it's a whole lot of feelings. The silence is palpatable. Then Enjolras continues, voice going from focused concentration to something more earnest,

"Sweet Sweet Siren

I imagine you ruining Oklahoma farm boys in the beds of their daddies trucks

I want to take you to church and show you what I can do to your confession booth on a Saturday night"

He cracks a smile, their eyes meet again and he smiles in return, then continues reading,

"I am at your station saying If I were a painter I would paint every billboard in this city bright white

Buy a projector and take you to a new drive in movie every single night

If I were an oven mitt I would say never touch anything hot without me

Obviously

I am going to do stupid things."

No, the poem isn't the best. But it's sweet, it's sincere, and it's from Enjolras. So Grantaire finds himself incapable of complaining. By the end of it, yes he is crying but again, that's mostly because it's from Enjolras.

"Yes, I am going to throw tantrums through your tidy heart

Yes, I am going to fall apart at your mother’s dinner table

over green beans and lentils and somebody’s sensible doubt

Yes, I am gonna run you a bath

That is to say I am gonna run into the rain

over and over, with an empty glass,

‘till you are soaking in the certainty

that nothing falls in vain

 

Wherever we land, there will always be this ‘they’

where I turn off the song of my stress, and your shame,

where I stop asking what all the crying has been about

All I know is my name could rust entirely away

in your perfect mouth."

They lock eyes one more time as the audience erupts into applause, Grantaire's face no doubt tear-stained. As Enjolras leaves the stage, Grantaire's hand slips from Jehan's and he follows him out. They climb the stairs from the basement into the bar in silence and walk out the front door. In the crisp air and yellow light, Enjolras finally turns to him. He looks beautiful if not tired, almost as tired as Grantaire. He runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it before fixing Grantaire with a sure look and speaking,

"I've also got a speech prepared, if you'd prefer it. That poem was heavily edited by Jehan, so I can't take much credit for it, he was very insistent about the romanticism of it all but I'd feel more comfortable in my own words so--"

Grantaire's grabs him by the collar and cuts him off with a kiss. It's bruising and desperate and really Grantaire has way too many poetry feelings, and he can taste the cigarette stains of both their mouths and the booze on the tip of his tongue but Grantaire just loves it even more. Enjolras is surprised but melts, just melts against Grantaire, hands tangling in his hair, holding his body close. They are quite the sight on the street, earning wolf-whistles from the homeless men a block down.

Finally when they pull away, red-faced and breathless, Grantaire just grins at him. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."

 

Jehan receives a text in the wee hours of the morning with a single "<3" when Grantaire doesn't come home.

**Author's Note:**

> so uh I obviously do a lot of Boston area poetry slams like who knew omg.  
> this week I've just gone to a lot and I had a lot of feelings and so yeah. I just wanted to write something actually quick for once.  
> say hi on [tumblr ](http://angrygayfriend.tumblr.com/) yo


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